Benefits of Friendship
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock and Molly are now friends. But can they be more? Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper, the world's only consulting pathologist to the world's only consulting detective, was in the morgue at St. Bart's hospital, currently up to her elbows in the chest of a forty-nine year old male. Fortunately he was dead. Molly was a pretty woman, though other people believed this more than she did. She was petite, with a slim yet curvy figure which she tended to hide under baggy clothes and lab coats. Her long auburn hair and her melted chocolate eyes were probably her best features, and they were the things people noticed first. Her kindness, intellect, humor, and generosity of spirit only enhanced the overall package.

Molly carefully lifted a diseased lung from her "patient" and placed it gently on a scale, just as Sherlock Holmes joined her, peering curiously over her shoulder.

"I can smell the tobacco on your breath, Sherlock. That's what your lungs are going to look like in a few years if you don't quit."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dr. Hooper. That man smoked two and a half packs a day. I have a cigarette or two…"

"Or three, or four…" she added.

"...when I need to concentrate. Besides, he smoked filtered. It's the filters that will kill you!"

Molly did not even snicker at his attempt at humor, not finding the condition of his lungs a laughing matter at all. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"How about a pair of kidneys? And possibly a liver? From the same corpsicle?"

Sherlock always took a great interest in studying human organs. Unfortunately, the human organs he wished to study were never Molly Hooper's, to her great regret.

"I think I can dig those up."

"No need to go all Burke and Hare on me, Molly. Whatever you have in the fridge will so!"

Molly did smile at the grave robbing reference.

"Can you drop them off tonight?"

Molly came as close to whining as Sherlock had ever heard. "Damn it, Sherlock, it's Friday night. And I don't run a human remains delivery service!"

"Well, then, bring a pizza, too. You know you have nothing better to do!" And with that Sherlock Holmes swept out of the morgue as swiftly as he had swept in. Molly would have been more upset if it hadn't been the truth. She didn't have anything better to do. Come to think of it, she couldn't imagine anything better than spending the evening with the arrogant git who owned her heart. Molly had been infatuated with the detective for years, probably since the day she met him. He was a towering intellect accompanied by a towering ego, all wrapped up in a delicious package of blue-green eyes, dark curls, and slim yet toned body. Molly could not understand how anybody could not love Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, ninety-nine point nine per cent of the population disagreed with her.

Later that afternoon, Molly received a text.

JOHN AND MARY WILL BE JOINING US. AND THEIR SPAWN. BRING ENOUGH PIZZA - SH

YOUR GODCHILD DOESN'T EAT PIZZA YET. SHE'S STILL ON THE BREAST - MH

PRECISELY. SO MARY WILL BE CONSUMING ENORMOUS QUANTITIES. AS USUAL - SH

And that was how the Friday night gatherings began at 221B Baker Street began. Mary had been eager to get out of the house, and John was eager to please her. Even a veteran of Afghanistan could be intimidated by a retired assassin made tense by spending her days with a hungry infant attached to her chest. Of course, Mrs. Hudson joined them every week, supplying snacks. DI Greg Lestrade would often arrive, with takeaway food or bottles of ale. The Sherlock of old would have resented the fact that his flat was being turned into a social venue, but the new model rather enjoyed it. With Molly's help he had faked his death to keep these people alive. He had long since learned to live with the fact that he cared about them, and, much to his surprise, they seemed to care about him. One, in particular, he thought, but had yet to investigate this possibility further. Perhaps he should get around to that soon.

The evenings always passed pleasantly. They started early, everybody arriving right from work and partaking of an evening meal of various takeaway items or pizza, well lubricated by Sherlock's excellent wine (which he had pinched from Mycroft, on most occasions), beer, ale, or good whiskey. Early on, Claire, John and Mary's infant daughter would be put to sleep in her godfather's bed, and the party would really begin.

On this particular evening Mrs. Hudson started the conversation. "John, I can't get over the fact that you have such an adorable daughter!"

"Should I be insulted?"

"After all, you and Sherlock…"

"Are not gay, Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted, Sherlock merely snickered.

"And she has Mary's lovely blonde hair…"

"I'm the blonde, here, Mrs. H. Mary's hair is really…" but he glanced over at the warning look on his wife's face, "...lovely, I agree." Nice save.

But Mrs. H., at least three glasses of strong wine under her belt, continued, "You mustn't worry, Sherlock dear. You'll find someone else. If John can, certainly you can." Sherlock smiled at her affectionately, Lestrade guffawed, and John rolled his eyes.

"Thank you for your great faith in me, Mrs. Hudson, but I assure you that I am no longer looking."

"What about that Janine woman? She was a looker! Do you have her number, if you're no longer interested?" Lestrade was feeling his liquor, and his libido.

"I was never interested. It was for a case!"

"Never interested? Shag-a-lot Holmes? Seven time in one night?"

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Graham."

"Greg!" This came from every other adult in the room. Sherlock studied their faces in turn. Mrs. Hudson was nodding her head knowingly, and moving her eyes from Sherlock to John. Mary was laughing delightedly, and John was rolling his eyes. Lestrade winked at him. But Molly looked uncomfortable at the course the evening had taken, sipping her wine and refusing to meet his eyes.

Surprisingly, Greg Lestrade was the first to take his leave that evening. From the leering tone in his voice, Sherlock deduced that he was on his way to make another attempt at reconciling with his soon to be ex-wife. Based on their past history, the reconciliation would last until morning, when he would be thrown out of her flat, hangover and all. Mrs. Hudson tottered down the too tall stairway on her too tall heels, remarkably unscathed. John and Mary gathered up their brood of one and, after allowing Uncle Sherlock and Aunt Molly to kiss her goodbye, carefully carried her down the stairs, accompanied by Sherlock, and out the front door.

When Sherlock returned to his sitting room, Molly was already busy cleaning up. This, too, had become a Friday night ritual. Left to his own devices, Sherlock would allow the mess to accumulate. Molly knew that the only chance she had of returning with next week's pizza and not finding this week's pizza was to clean up herself. Sherlock sometimes actually helped, as he was this evening, but often he just sat on his chair, watching her intently. But tonight he seemed to be in a talkative mood.

"I'm not gay, you know. Despite Mrs. Hudson's constant innuendos."

"Why are we discussing this, Sherlock? I surely would have thought that you considered information about your sex life a strictly need to know basis?"

"Molly, we're friends. Maybe I thought you needed to know."

Molly must have been encouraged by the wine coursing through her system, as she found the words tumbling from her mouth. "Okay, Shag-a-Lot Holmes. Seven times? Really?"

"I've told you a dozen times. I never touched Janine…"

"John saw her come out of your bedroom. In your shirt! You kissed her…"

"Alright, alright. I touched her. But not anywhere important!"

"Maybe her definition of 'important' is different from yours, Sherlock!"

"I did not have sex with Janine seven times!"

"Six? Five? Give me a number!"

"I never had sex with Janine. Despite what George…"

"Greg…"

"...thinks. Or John…"

"John doesn't think you had sex with Janine. John is half convinced you're a virgin!"

Sherlock had to snicker at that. "Well, I must admit that I may have implied that I lacked experience with the opposite sex. At the time I was just trying to shut him up about his latest conquest. I find that talking about sex tends to be boring if you're not one of the participants. It worked at the time." Sherlock had a thoughtful look on his face for just the briefest of moments. "That does explain his delicacy in questioning me about Miss Adler. He was trying to discern whether I had lost my virginity to a dominatrix. Probably thought I was scarred for life!"

"So you had sex with Irene Adler? That explains how you could identify her without looking at her face." Molly spoke quietly, and a little sadly.

"Yes, Molly, Irene and I had sex. But not until after I identified that body on the slab."

"If you're confessing to necrophilia, Sherlock, I don't want to hear about it!"

"Nonsense. I would have identified any body as Irene's. She faked her death to escape an enemy. Sound familiar? No. I ran into her in Karachi some time later. I saved her life, and she insisted on thanking me. Insisted rather forcefully, as she is a dominatrix by trade."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Sex is always rather enjoyable, don't you think. But Irene Adler is not really my cup of tea."

Molly was fascinated by this new side to Sherlock Holmes, but couldn't help wondering why they were having this conversation, and where it was leading. Here he was, standing next to her at the sink, cleaning dishes and talking dirty. And she was listening, and responding, relatively calmly. A few years ago she would have died of embarrassment, and lust. Possibly a combination of both. Despite her obvious infatuation, he had never expressed any interest in sex in general, or her in particular. She could only assume it was the alcohol talking.

"So, once again, Sherlock, we're having this discussion because…"

"We're friends."

"And…"

"Have you ever heard the expression 'friends with benefits', Molly?"

Molly dropped a plate. Fortunately it bounced off her foot before it hit the floor, preventing it from shattering. Neither of them made a move to pick it up. Molly couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was she really hearing it, or was it her over excited imagination.

"Breathe, Molly", Sherlock said gently into her left ear. "Perhaps it's not a good idea. I'm not trying to take advantage, really. I realize you once were infatuated with me, but if you don't want…"

"You may not be trying to take advantage, Sherlock, but I certainly am going to! I've waited years for an offer like this, and I have no intention on passing up this opportunity. I don't even care if just the wine talking. I don't care if you leave in the morning…"

"Don't be silly, Molly. Why would I leave in the morning? It's my flat…"

"Shut up, Sherlock." And with that Molly threw her arms around his neck, and rather successfully shut him up by pressing her mouth hungrily to his. Another dish fell to the floor, this one shattering. But neither seemed to notice as they made their way carefully to the bedroom, maneuvering their bodies through the kitchen and sitting room, and down the hall without breaking their embrace.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. Unlike Janine, I won't be selling be selling the tabloids any unbelievable stories about Shag-a-lot Holmes," Molly said breathlessly laughing.

"I don't know, Molly. She made a pretty piece of change from that story. We could buy some nice lab equipment for the flat. Besides, what makes you think that seven times a night is unbelievable?" Sherlock leered and winked.

By the third time, Molly was moving to Baker Street. By the fifth, they were engaged. By the sixth, they were married, and the seventh had them naming their first two children. Molly only hoped that two children were enough. As much as she loved him, she was exhausted!


End file.
